Punisher: Damage Report
by vv360
Summary: A monologue in the vein of Garth Ennis' MAX Punisher, it expounds on a scene described at the beginning of the "Long Cold Dark" story arc.


_I know I've been focusing more on those Goddamn Batman stories, but I wanted to do something serious for a change. I decided to do another monologue type narration, similar to the 1st installment of the Goddamn Batman's, but this time, with the Punisher._

45 wiseguys dead. An armory's worth of AK-47's in a neat little cube next to a trash compactor. A minivan full of smack at the bottom of the Hudson. And as for the cherry on top, a little under a million dollars sitting in the back of my car. A good night's work.

But tomorrow's another day. And each passing day allows the Russians to keep peddling their heroin, running their guns, and shipping in their women, all unpunished. Might as well get started on weapons prep. It'll save me a lot of time.

After I get down from the car, the first thing I pull off the rack is the M4. Nice, sleek little carbine. Been in service for around 40 years, so you know it's reliable enough. Mostly I just use it when I know there's going to be a lot of wiseguys and a lot of cover for them to hide behind, and seeing how tonight went down, that's exactly what I'll expect. The gun and its ammo are light, so I always make it a point to pack as much as I want.

The thing with the M4, or rather the 5.56 mm round is that it's small, and small bullets equals small holes. The only time the guy's gonna realize he's been hit is either when he takes his attention off of you to run for cover and checks to see that he ought to be dead already, or when one goes right between his eyes and he can't do anything but fall to the floor. I've used it enough to do the latter more often, so it's all good.

As I'm loading the rounds my eyelids begin to sink. Not good to delay rest especially if it's a long day tomorrow. So I finish loading about 4 mags and then I lay my head on the workbench. Then for the first time in a long time, I think I'm going to get a nice, peaceful sleep.

And then comes the dream. So much for that.

People talk about dreams as if they're something to look forward to every time they go to sleep. But I have to say, even after 30 years of this shit, the dreams still aren't getting any better. I still don't sleep any better than I slept the night after I lost Maria, Lisa and Junior.

But this one is different. This dream is not about Hell's Kitchen; of the pregnant girls crying and slashing their wrists because they were too young to tell their kids they all have the same father.

This dream is not about Vietnam; of Capt. Frank Castle, USMC, the last surviving marine out of 192 stationed at Firebase Valley Forge. Of a man who taken his bloody fill of war and still was not satisfied.

This dream is not about Central Park; of the bright midday sun and the brighter muzzle flash of a Thompson. Of the green grass smeared with the red, viscous puddles of my family's blood. Of the sweet, steaming apple pie my wife had baked, later topped with my daughter's intestines and my son's brains.

Believe me, there are worse things.

Tonight, I dreamed that Maria, Lisa and Junior were still with me. We didn't have our picnic that day. The kids had fallen sick.

Now, Lisa's an arts professor at a university and Junior's a financial consultant. Not telling them to follow in dear old dad's business really paid off.

Maria's taking care of the grandkids. She's in such good shape, it puts me to shame. She goes out and plays hide-and-seek with them and afterwards bakes the best chocolate chip cookies in America and shares it with them. Just like she used to with Lisa and Junior.

I'm old, fat and slow. I came back from Vietnam and surprised myself with how well-adjusted I became with sitting on my ass and sipping bourbon. I never became a street urchin holding up a sign saying "Please Give $$$. Vietnam vet." I never became a junkie trading guns and antiques for crack. I never became a crazy old coot in the mountains going out every night to shoot deer thinking it's Charlie.

I never became a vigilante who decided he hadn't had enough war yet and so decided to have some more in New York.

It was perfect.

Or so I thought.

One day Maria calls me while I'm out with old friends fishing. She says the neighbors saw some gangbangers run through the house. The grandkids are missing, among other things. I jump out the boat and try to get to the car as fast as I can while my legs try to remember swimming through the Mekong.

I reach the car and take off. While I'm on the road, I get another call. It's Lisa's husband. He says she's at the infirmary and they're trying to stabilize her. He said something about some kids reporting to school with guns in their backpacks.

As I reach the intersection on the highway, there's a traffic jam. All the people were out of their cars, trying to get a look at the commotion. I did too; this guy picked the wrong time to block my right of way, I thought.

I hear the cops telling each other what happened; seems the guy was in the way of a stolen armored car. The thieves ran him into a side wall. "He's lucky to be alive," I hear them say. I try to get a closer look at the guy they're trying to get out of the wreckage. At that point, I run right through the crowd and start tearing at the door with my bare hands. It's Junior.

About ten cops and paramedics try to subdue me. As I go down, so does the door with me. Junior falls off his seat and his head lands in the arms of a waiting paramedic. Just like it did that day in Central Park.

I wake up, feeling none the better. It's far from the first time I've had that dream. I try to kill it each and every time, but it rarely works for long. Every time I take my attention off the task at hand for just one moment, the dream comes rushing in worse than a rifle between the eyes.

It hits me at my worst. I never realize it at first, and I'm always too late to stop it. Just a small hole from a small bullet, too innocuous for me to realize it's already tearing at my insides.

But I suck it up as I always do. There are a lot of unpunished fucks out there and I'll more damned than I already am if I let them go just because I've been losing sleep at night.

Instead, I take solace in the fact that I've learned something from that dream. I've realized that perhaps Maria, Lisa and Junior were meant to be there that bright afternoon. That so they wouldn't be vulnerable now to the scum that lurks right outside our doorstep. That so I couldn't drag them with me into all this horror.

I've realized that everyone has their place. Maria, Lisa, and Junior; in Central Park on that sunny afternoon, and in heaven; the place farthest from me and this madness. All the scum that lurks outside my doorstep; in my gunsights and in the ground. And me; in the same place I'm in now.

With that in mind, I finish loading all my weapons. I put them in the car. I suit up and prepare to walk into the long, cold, dark outside.

I prepare to put everyone in their place.


End file.
